


I couldn't burn it out, even if I wanted to

by Fionakevin073



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Death, F/M, Grief, Love, WWII, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 13:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11784108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionakevin073/pseuds/Fionakevin073
Summary: The 1940's AU where Anne meets Henry first but marries Charles.





	I couldn't burn it out, even if I wanted to

**Author's Note:**

> A/N The 1940’s AU that no one really asked for. Hope you all enjoy! Please review! 
> 
> Until next time,   
> Fionakevin073
> 
> ( also, I know Saint Malo was destroyed during WWII but if we would could just ignore that for the sake of this story, I’d be grateful! )

_I couldn’t burn it out, even if I wanted to— Hunger, Ross Copperman_

 

i. 

 

Anne is 18 years old when rumours of World War II break out on the other side of the world. 

 

She is there, sitting by her father in the living room as he reads the paper aloud, a chill running down her spine as he remarks, “And here I thought we had learned not to repeat past mistakes.” He is referring to the Great War that he himself partook in as a young man, but of which Anne did not exist during. 

 

Mary trembles so greatly next to her that the cushion they are both sitting on trembles with her. Anne casts a concerned glance to her elder sister, aged 20, and is all of a sudden blinded by how dangerous this all is. George is quiet from where he sits on the other couch nearby, his face blank and his usual tanned cheeks pale. 

 

Finally, Anne asks the question they are all thinking but don’t dare say aloud. 

 

“Will the war— if there is one— come here?” she asks quietly. 

 

Almost immediately, her father smiles encouragingly at her and gestures for her to come sit closer to him. 

 

“Anne,” he says gently, almost as if she were a child—which she is of course, though she loathes to admit it— “We are safe here. They have their European war on the other side of the world but America will not join. We’ll be safe and sound, don’t worry.” 

 

Anne is not quite sure she believes him. 

 

ii. 

 

Anne had just graduated from her high school—top of her class—  and her mind began to wonder to the France of her childhood. Her father had once been the U.S. Ambassador to France and had taken her with him— with Mary, George and their Mother joining them in the Summer— along for the ride. 

 

They had lived there for seven years before they moved back to America after her mother had died. Anne remembers the charming bistros on the side of every block, the beautiful garments and pleasant breezes, the high pitched French squeals and the elegance of every specimen around her. France was a haven that Anne used to long to return to but now with the threat of war, that dream was growing further and further away from her. 

 

She had already been accepted to Stanford for the fall semester— much to her father’s infinite approval— and so come mid July Mary is already dragging her across town, calling for her to have fun before she hurries on off to college. Mary was taking nursing classes at the community college nearby, waiting for some young dashing knight to sweep her off her feet. 

 

“Come on Anne,” Mary urged her, tugging on her hand. Anne was careful to tuck her book— _Le Petit Prince—_ in her purse before rolling her eyes playfully at her elder sister and allows her to drag her into the nearby diner where they were to meet a few of their friends. 

 

“Anne!” Nan and Madge called out excitedly, running over to hug her and Mary. Anne giggled with them as they walked over to the table the other girls had claimed, sending a few waves here and there to some people she recognised from her class. 

 

“To us Stanford girls!” Madge cheered, causing them all to clink their Coke’s together. Anne and Nan had been accepted on a scholarship, whereas Madge’s parents had made a  _considerable_ donation to the college for Madge. 

 

They talk, laugh and gossip—an action that Anne rarely partook in— for the rest of the evening, before Anne’s smile dropped slightly at the sight of Thomas Wyatt, her former almost-beau. 

 

She lifted her right hand and waved at him when he caught her eye, before she casted him a small semi-awkward smile which he returned in kind. Mary caught her eye from where she sat on the other side of the booth with her delicate, dainty features painted with motherly concern. 

 

“Oh Anne,” Madge whispered from beside her. 

 

“It’s for the best,” she said finally, a small lump in her throat, “Truly, it is. We would have only made each other miserable.” It was true; Anne was only travelling to Stanford, which was only about an hour away from her small hometown, Hever. Whereas Thomas— Tom— was travelling all the way to New York City in search of fame and a record deal. 

 

With that last comment and a final toss of her dark locks over her shoulder, her infamous half-smile, half-smirk appeared on her lips. “Come on,” she said, a hint of mischief in her voice, “Let’s go dancing.” 

 

iii. 

 

Before Anne knows it, August arrives and she’s off to the dorms. Luckily, Anne, Madge and Nan managed to get a three bedroom dorm at this _beautiful_ dormitory on Campus, and even though it was rather cramped, Anne was glad she would be with them than anyone else. 

 

She leaves Hever early in the morning, with her father, brother and sister seeing her off at the train station. She’s wearing a light blue, loose fitting polka dotted dress and her dark locks have been braided down her back. The necklace her father gave when she was twelve— her signature pearl necklace with the golden, thin _B_ at the end and which she had never taken off since— hung delicately around her neck as she played with it. 

 

She set her two cases— one with books, the other with clothes— on the ground and turned to face her family, her heart beating dully in her bosom. There was a thick odour of smoke from the train lingering under her nose and her ears were beginning to ring from all the noise around them. “George,” she said quietly—sadly, truth be told— and hugged him around the waist. His arms rose around her immediately before he ruffled her hair with a twinkle in his eye, “Don’t go driving any boys crazy now, Anne.” 

 

Anne laughed lightly, her sadness momentarily forgotten, “I’ll try.” 

 

She hadn’t even stepped away from George for a moment before Mary had her arms around her in a fierce hug. “Mary,” Anne gasped, “I can barely breathe.” Her sister merely held onto her tighter, a gesture which Anne soon returned. “I’ll miss you so much.” Anne breathed into her sister’s neck, taking note of the faint smell of honey and cherry’s that somehow only Mary pulled off. “I’ll miss you more,” she breathed back. Gradually, they disentangled, with both of their eyes wetter than they had been before. 

 

“You’ll write?” 

 

“Every week,” Anne answered in a heartbeat. 

 

Mary squeezed her hand and met her gaze— her elder sister looked proud and tired at the same time— before she casted Anne a small smile which she returned. Then finally, she turned to her father, who looked the saddest she had ever seen him since her Mother’s funeral. “Anne,” he said under his breath, loud enough for only her to hear, “What will I do without you, my bright girl?” He played with one of her dark curls for a moment, before glancing down meaningfully at the _B_ hanging on her necklace. 

 

“Don’t forget what that means,” he told her before he proceeded to pat her gently on the cheek and reminded her to call or write every week and to keep up her studies before he ushered her onto the train with her two cases. 

 

The only time Anne let herself cry was when she leaned out her window to wave at her family until they faded from view. 

 

iv. 

 

College is _hard._

 

It’s fun as well, especially in the beginning  before school started when the girls went to the beach, tanned, shopped and had a blast. Anne becomes friends with the others girls on their floor,  Anna, a European girl born and bread in America, Bessie Blount, a blonde haired, blue eyed bombshell who was without a doubt the most _giggliest_ person Anne had ever encountered and then finally Mary Tudor, who was a two bedroom dorm _all to herself._

 

She isn’t that close to Mary Tudor, in part because she doesn’t see her often and in part because they don’t seem to have all that much in common, but with her red hair and blue eyes, she is without a doubt the most _memorable_ female she has ever met. 

 

Classes begin, Anne has French, Latin, Mathematics and Poetry for her first semester and even though she studies hard like she promised her father, she still manages to fall behind. Not _too_ far back, but far enough that Anne feels as though she is going to develop grey hair before she hits twenty. 

 

She goes out less and less and even though Nan (an english major with hopes of becoming a writer) studies alongside her every night, Anne feels incredibly lonely. She misses Mary and George, the latter of whom moved to New York shortly after she left home. Mary writes and calls every week and she does as well but it isn’t the _same._ Their lives are moving in different directions and even though Anne enjoys her life, she wishes more than anything that Mary would be here with her. 

 

She missed her father as well, cold and stoic man that he was. 

 

(War is officially declared in September and her dream of returning to France crumbles into nothingness) 

 

v. 

 

Anne goes home for Winter break with Nan and Madge by her side. Her hair is lighter from the sun and curlier too (sea salt had that affect), her skin is darker and Anne is different. Mary joked that she had hardly recognised her when she and her father came to pick her up at the station. 

 

Hever is the same. 

 

It’s only herself that has changed, she felt. 

 

They don’t talk about the war on the other side of the world. 

 

vi. 

 

Before Anne knows it, her first year has finished. She ends her year with a 3.9 GPA and as a gift for her success, her father allows her and Mary to travel to Los Angeles for the first two weeks of July with Nan and Mary’s friend, Claude. 

 

They spend their days at the beach, eating cotton candy off their fingers and walking down Hollywood Boulevard with stars in their eyes and a spring in their step. 

 

It would be hard to believe that on the other side of the world, men, women and children were dying the most painful deaths imaginable. That entire _communities_ were being wiped out. Anne had heard and read some news of War but it seemed as though everyone around her was trying to ignore, as if if they did not acknowledge what was happening it would not happen to them. 

 

The memories of the Great War was still fresh in all of their minds. Anne had not been born during those times but she remembers the whispers and the history lessons and the way her father’s eyes would grow dark and haunted. 

 

War is something she would not wish on anyone.

 

But she brushes those thoughts away—at least for now— and focuses on her sister, who is currently telling her all about her new beau, “William.” 

 

“William?” Anne asked, surprised, “Howard?” 

 

Mary had been interested in William Howard for a few weeks when Anne was in her freshmen year of high school and even though—much to her delight— he had asked her out on a date, Mary had quickly fallen out of love with him, claiming he was “dull” and “boring”. She had not spoken of him since. 

 

“God no,” Mary scoffed, waving her hand in the air, “I would not be caught dead with that dullard. I am talking about William Stafford.” 

 

Anne’s eyebrows rose even higher on her head as her eyes grew wide. 

 

“The newspaper boy?” Her voice was incredulous and full of shock. He was a young man of twenty four but he had been the newspaper boy for as long as she could remember, His family was on the poorer side of Hever and her father always spoke of them with great dislike because of a slight— or at least, something her father perceived as a slight— his father had committed against their’s. 

 

“Yes,” Mary admitted, a hint of insecurity in her voice, “I love him.” 

 

Anne stared at her sister, feeling slightly gobsmacked. Her mind was filled with questions, _how? what? where? when?_ but as she prepared to ask them, she took note of her sister’s expression. She noticed how her sister’s eyes had grown soft at the mention of him, how her cheeks had grown rosy and knew deep down to her bones that her sister’s feelings were true. 

 

“Does he love you?” 

 

Mary untucked a necklace from her gown in response to reveal— 

 

“An engagement ring?” 

 

If Anne had been shocked beforehand, she had no words for how she felt now. 

 

Anne leaned forward and grasped onto the ring, lifting it up for her inspection. It was simple and clean cut, though the diamond dazzled under the soft glow of the lamps beside them. “Shh,” Mary hushed, her voice light, “We mustn’t wake the others.” 

 

“It’s— it’s—“ 

 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mary sighed as she began to play with the ring, a smile on her face. “He asked me about a month before we left. Oh Anne you should have seen him, red faced and shy— it was the most sweetest thing any boy has ever done for me. So romantic, I can’t even find the words—“ And then she proceeded to babble on for a few minutes as Anne sat there in silence. When Mary quietened Anne asked, “Does Father know?” 

 

Mary’s pause was all Anne needed to hear. 

 

“Mary—“ 

 

“I know what you are going to say,” her sister interrupted, looking down at the bed sheets, “I know that it has only been two months and I know that I didn’t tell you but— but I promised that I would keep it quiet before we told Father and— Anne I would love for you to be my maid of honour.” 

 

Though Anne had many misgivings about the whole affair, her love for her sister and her desire for Mary’s happiness outweighed them without question. “Of course,” she replied lovingly and enveloped her sister in a tight hug. 

 

vii. 

 

Anne was there when Mary and William told Father of their engagement. 

 

She was there when she witnessed her father’s eyes narrow with disapproval and how his eyes grew cold at the sight of Mary and William’s interlocked hands. She was there when the curt “No” left his pale pink lips and she was there when Mary and her father started screaming at each other at the top of their lungs and when her father told her sister to, “Get out. You are no daughter of mine.” 

 

Anne sat there and pleaded with her father and when she realised that he would not budge she raced up the stairs to her sister’s room and her eyes widened when she saw her sister furiously shoving clothes and other personal items into some of her suitcases and bags. 

 

“Mary no— you can’t leave—“ 

 

“You heard him Anne,” cried Mary, as she whirled around to face her with tears streaming down her reddened face. “It was either I say goodbye to William or I get out of his house. William loves me, more than Father ever could.” 

 

Anne didn’t know what to say to that. 

 

A little more than ten minutes later, Anne watched as her sister loaded her bags into William’s old, rusted convertible and drove off to William’s house with her lover by her side. 

 

“Good riddance,” said Father, from where he stood behind her as he watched the scene and made sure that no one else had seen the spectacle. Anne felt hollow. In the course of an hour, her sister had been kicked out of the house and disowned and without her brother there, Anne was the only one of her siblings left in the house. 

 

The sun set and darkness fell upon the town and when Anne woke the next morning she resolved to restore her sister to their father’s good grace once more. She waited a few days for her father to calm down before she began to plead with him. 

 

“Father I beg of you—“ 

 

“Anne, I will hear no more—“ 

 

“Father over the course of this past year you have managed to not only drive away your only son but you have somehow deemed it a good idea to disown your eldest daughter for falling in love. He _loves_ her Papa and you know Mary, she needs someone to lean on, to love her and we both know how fiercely she loves. Father, if you love her then please let her be happy and let her come home.” 

 

“She has brought dishonour on this family Anne! I love Mary but I will not have—“ 

 

Anne’s frustration finally broke. 

 

“Father if you cast away Mary you will also lose me!” 

 

Her father stared at her, wide eyed with shock. 

 

“I will leave! I will leave for Stanford early and I will never come back if you don’t allow her to come back also.” There was a moment’s pause. “And give her and William your full support,” she added. His face was grave and deathly pale before finally, _finally,_ he nodded, “Very well. I will allow her to return home for your sake.” Anne nearly collapsed with relief but just as she was about to hurry out of the door, her father’s voice stopped her, “But if she does not come back with you now, I will never speak to her again. I will cut her off completely and disinherit her as well as her fiancee.” 

 

“As you wish, Father.” 

 

And then she went out through the front door, slightly out of breath as she bounded down the stairs on the front porch. The skirt of her plaited dress flew up as she climbed onto her bike— the one her brother bought her for her fifteenth birthday— and began to cycle furiously to the other side of town where she knew the Stafford’s to live. 

 

_One block from the barber’s shop, next to Mrs Abott’s old house, one left and one right and then—_

 

A small white house came into Anne’s view. She sighed loudly with relief as she squeezed the breaks and brought her bike to a screeching halt. Anne wasted no time before she jumped off of it and left it there on the dying grass as she sprinted for the door and knocked on it rapidly. 

 

“Mary!” cried out Anne, her desperation making her lose all decorum. 

 

It also prevented her from realising that there was no car in the driveway. That the house had no sign of life whatsoever. That there were no open windows and that even in some places curtains that had hung there for years had been taken down. 

 

Still, Anne was persistent as she continued to knock. 

 

After another minute or so, Anne pulled back and stared at the house, before she called out, “Mary! William!” 

 

In her haste she did not notice another young male approach her from next door. 

 

“Excuse me, Miss?” 

 

Anne jumped at the sound of his voice and turned to look at the young man, whom she vaguely remembered from her high school. 

 

“Jeremy Collins,” she greeted and her cheeks warmed as she realised that he had witnessed her being so disorderly. “How are you?” 

 

He smiled at her and it revealed crooked teeth, though it did nothing to dampen its warmth. “I’m well Anne. I hope everything is going well for you at Stanford.” Anne thanked him graciously and just as she began to inquire as to the whereabouts of her sister and William, his smile died as he reached for an envelope in his satchel. 

 

Anne’s heart slowed dangerously as she stared at the white envelope in his hand. 

 

“What is that?” she questioned stiffly, unable— no _unwilling_ to believe it. 

 

“Your sister gave it to me, to give to you,” is all the poor boy could say, “She said to tell you that she was sorry and that she would talk to you as soon as she could.” 

 

Anne raised a hand to stop him and gently took hold of the letter, bile rising in her throat as her eyes grew glassy. “Thank you,” she said faintly, “This must have been very hard for you.” 

 

And then before he could say anything, Anne walked to her bike, her heart breaking with every step she took. When she returned home, without a sister and with only a letter in her hand and tears streaming down her face, her father took her in his arms and pressed a kiss to her head as she sobbed into his chest. 

 

“I am so sorry I threatened to leave you Papa,” she whimpered against his chest. 

 

“Shh, my dear Anne, your father is here and your brother has promised to return and go with you to the city.” 

 

That does nothing to stop Anne’s sobs. 

 

viii. 

 

A week before Anne returned for her sophomore year, the phone rang in the kitchen. 

 

Anne picked up the phone without a thought and pressed it to her ear. 

 

“Hello? This is the Boleyn Residence.” 

 

She heard a familiar exhale on the other end and before _she_ could get a word in, Anne snapped, “You are no sister of mine. Do not call back here again.” Then she promptly slapped the phone back down and ignored the way her inside’s twisted at her rudeness. 

 

ix. 

 

When Anne looked back on those years, she grudgingly admitted that if had not been for her falling out with Mary, Anne never would have met _them._ School had not been the same, even though George lived about a ten minute walk from her new dorm. Though Anne believed she hid her unhappiness well, her friends new better and before Anne could stop it her friend Bessie had signed all of them up for the Masquerade Rescue, where a group of girls (some dressed in white to symbolise angels and others in black to symbolise devils) where supposedly ‘captured’ by evil fairies and needed to be rescued by ‘valiant knights’. 

 

In other words, handsome boys would rescue pretty girls. 

 

“A boy is just what you need to distract you,” is all Bessie had said when Anne had confronted her with a sign up sheet she had taken from the bulletin board in their dorm’s hallway. Anne had only sighed before she decided that it was worth a shot. 

 

It takes about two weeks of practice for Anne to memories the choreography and by the time the day of the Masquerade arrived, Anne found herself rather excited. She surveyed her reflection in the mirror one final time and took note of her costume. She was dressed identically to the angels, in a white corseted gown that had sleeves that exposed her shoulders, a gold tiara had been safely secured on the top of her head, where the rest of her dark locks has been twisted into an intricate bun. A beautiful white mask had been fastened over her eyes and it dazzled under the bright lights. 

 

Before Anne knew it, she was at her place at the top of the supposed ‘castle’ looking down upon the dark fairies and their brave knights. 

 

“Our valiant heroes are—“ Anne tried to see if she recognised any of them but she found herself unable to do so due to the masks on their faces— “and Amorous.” The drums began to beat and before Anne could blink there was a sudden roar of ‘attack’ . It was chaos from then on; a blur of squeals and trumpets and girls being literally and figuratively swept off their feet. Anne blinked and then— 

 

A hand had grabbed a hold of her wrist. His skin was smooth except for a few callouses but Anne was enchanted by his eyes, his beautiful _magnificent_ blue eyes that made her heart stop beating. “Perseverance you are my prisoner now.” Anne giggled at that and was pleasantly surprised when he leapt over the railing and swept her up, bridal style, which caused her to link her arms around his neck. 

 

_She doesn’t want to leave his arms_

 

When they eventually reach the ground level he sets her on her feet but before she could say anything she was swept away by Bessie Blount as she whispered in her ear, “We have to be in our places for the dance.” 

 

x. 

 

She doesn’t dance with him, her mystery man. 

 

No, the man she danced with had blue eyes but they weren’t _his._

 

Anne had tried not to look too disappointed throughout the dance and she has to admit that her partner was handsome. He looked like a greek god, with his perfectly structured cheekbone and blue eyes that were intertwined with grey. When the dance stopped her grabbed a hold of her hand, bowed and pressed a gentle kiss on her pale skin. 

 

He looked up at her and grinned. 

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you are the most gorgeous girl in the room?” 

 

And that is how she met Charles Brandon. 

 

xi. 

 

Their relationship escalated quickly. 

 

One date on Friday to the movies ended with Anne’s first kiss at Stanford. 

 

_Oh dear God, she felt the butterflies all the way down to her toes._

 

One date turned into two, which turned into three and before Anne knew it three months later he asked her if they could go steady. 

 

In December of 1940, her father came up to Stanford to take her and George home for the holiday and so that he could meet Charles, who was going to stay with his family in Beverly Hills. They go out to eat at Anne’s favourite restaurant— a French one, mind you— and just as Charles excused himself to go to the restroom, her father looked at her and asked, “Do you love him?” 

 

Anne flushed under her father’s gaze and blurted out, “Yes, Papa. He makes me very happy.” And it was true. Charles was handsome and charming and adventurous and he made her feel like she could do _anything_ when she was with him. Being with him was the easiest thing in the world. He helped her loosen up. Most importantly, he also made her forget Mary and all the pain that came with her. 

 

Her father nodded before he smiled, “I like him.” 

 

Anne smiled so hard it hurt. 

 

After Charles had returned and her father had pestered him with questions— Where do you plan on working? _At my father’s publishing business Sir._ What is your current GPA? _3.4 Mr. Boleyn._ Call me Thomas, please. _As you wish. . .Thomas—_ the bell on the restaurant dinged and Anne saw Bessie Blount come in with her boy of the month, Henry Tudor. She knew that Henry and Charles were friends and Anne had met him but he had always seem distant and constantly avoided her gaze. When they had gone on a double date with the couple to the movies, they had spent the whole time making out. 

 

Anne waved at Bessie, who smiled and waved back before she returned to Henry. Anne frowned as she stared at his back but she promptly forgot her thoughts when she heard her father ask, “What are your plans with my daughter?” 

 

“Father!” she exclaimed as she turned bright red. 

 

Charles merely laughed— a sound that never ceased to fill her with warmth— and grasped a hold of her hand before he replied. 

 

“I wanna marry her someday, Sir.” 

 

xii. 

 

Anne was there when Charles and Henry graduated in June. 

 

She smiled and laughed alongside Bessie— Bessie and Henry’s relationship had surprisingly lasted— and Mary, who was Henry’s sister and when Charles found her, he wrapped her in a hug and spun her around. She laughed loudly in delight and allowed him to catch her lips in a passionate kiss as she smiled against his lips. 

 

A week from that day, Anne celebrated her twentieth birthday with a massive party at Charles’s house. His mansion, she should say. Anne’s family was one of the wealthiest in Hever but their wealth was nothing compared to Charles’s family. They were mega millionaires for Christ sake. 

 

As she weaved her way through the dancing crowd as she searched for Charles, Anne bumped into someone. “Henry!” exclaimed Anne as she held onto his shoulder to steady herself, “I’m so sorry.” Henry shook his head at her and cast her a smile that somehow did not seem to reach his eyes. “Don’t worry about it,” he told her, his voice low. There was a hint of an accent in his voice that Anne could not quite place and just as she opened her mouth to say something he cut her off. 

 

“Good luck.” 

 

“With what—“ 

 

Her voice drifted off as she caught sight of Charles waltzing over to her in a tuxedo. The music had grown low when he reached her and when he dropped to his knees it quietened immediately. Everyone was quiet as they stared at them and Anne— thoroughly surprised as she was— felt almost uncomfortable that everyone was watching them. 

 

“Anne,” Charles said as he reached for a small black box in his pocket, “Will you marry me and make me the happiest man on Earth?” 

 

She was aware of everyone’s gaze on her as she stared down at him, her heart pounding in her chest. 

 

“Yes!” cried Anne, as she nodded her head frantically, “Yes I will marry you!” 

 

xiii. 

 

She spent the rest of the summer planning the wedding with her mother in law. Anne had always wanted her wedding to be in France, in the town of Saint Malo where she had gone with her father during the summer every year she had lived in France. She had always wanted it to be a small, intimate affair with only close family and friends. She had wanted to wear her mother’s wedding dress. 

 

Anne married Charles Brandon in a beautiful yet incredibly _poofy_ gown that was ‘the latest trend’ according to all her friends and mother in law. The wedding took place in a massive church that Anne had been to a total of two times before the wedding. Even though it is the exact opposite of what she thought she had wanted, Anne is happy. 

 

(Nan was her maid of honour instead of Mary and even though Charles and George get on, her brother was not made a groomsman) 

 

Anne spent the night dancing with Charles and George and her father and when she found herself dancing with the latter, he sighed at her and said, “I suppose you’re not a Boleyn anymore. Perhaps I should have a new necklace made.” Anne frowned at his words and just as she reached for the necklace sure to be on her neck she realised that she was not wearing it. She had not worn it for a long time. Charles had bought her a necklace for Valentine’s day and she had worn it ever since. 

 

“That’s okay Papa.” 

 

 _Anne Brandon,_ she thought, _Anne Brandon._ It felt strange, almost like she was talking about a different person. When her father pulled away Anne found herself staring into Henry Tudor— the best man— eyes. 

 

“Would you like to dance?” he asked. 

 

Anne smiled at him shyly before nodding, unsure as to why she felt so nervous. They swayed gently to the music and danced in silence. “You looked very beautiful,” he told her, his voice soft. “Thank you,” she murmured, not quite knowing what to say. His hand was soft except for a few rare callouses, quite unlike Charles’s rough skin and it felt oddly familiar, almost as if she had held his hand before, which is ridiculous because— 

 

Anne felt her eyes widen. 

 

“Thank you for the dance,” said Henry and he must have recognised the confused expression on her face because he winked— rather expertly— and added, “Perseverance.” Then he pulled away from her just as Charles hugged her from behind. 

 

xiv.

 

Anne and Charles went to Mexico for their honeymoon. 

 

Their first night as husband and wife was short but passionate and Charles murmured, “I love you,” moments after, right before he fell asleep. 

 

“I love you too,” she whispered, staring at his sleeping face. 

 

xv. 

 

When they come back from their honeymoon, just in time for Anne’s first semester as a Junior, everyone is talking about the war on the other side of the world. Anne had managed to forget it somehow— it sounds strange but with everything happening, she had grown less worried by it and more preoccupied with well, everything else— especially because her and Charles had been so happy in Mexico. 

 

“You thought about it?” their neighbour asked Charles, “Enlisting?” 

 

They had just moved into their own house (well, Charles’s family had already owned it and had it furnished, they just had to move in their clothes)  which was only a fifteen minute walk from Stanford and Anne had already grown acquainted with her neighbour Jane. “Yes,” Charles admitted, as Anne laid the tray of tea onto the table, much to her surprise. 

 

He hadn’t told her that before. 

 

Anne did not see that much of Charles once the semester started but he always came home from work with a bouquet of flowers or some other trinket for her and every night after they made love he pressed a kiss against her cheek and whispered that he loved her. 

 

Months pass. December came. 

 

Anne listened in horror as the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour. Charles hugged her tightly and pressed a kiss against her lips. “Everything will be okay,” he told her, rocking her back and forth, “I love you.” 

 

xvi. 

 

Charles and Henry enlist the very next day and before Anne can fly comprehend what is happening they depart for basic training in Georgia. Anne does not know what to do with herself. She was sick with worry every night and the thought of doing homework and going to class seemed laughable but she still does it. She buries herself in schoolwork in order to distract herself from missing Charles. 

 

But she was determined not to wallow. 

 

So she goes out with her small group of friends and with a sudden jolt realised how much had changed since she had been married. Anna had cut her hair into a short bob, Mary Tudor had changed her major from teaching to nursing, Bessie Blount had ended her relationship with Henry (though that did little to change her friendship with Mary), Madge had a new beau and Nan was thinking of dropping out so she could volunteer in the army. 

 

“They need everyone they can get,” is all she had said. 

 

Anne thought about it but Charles had been firmly against the idea in his letter. 

 

 _Anne,_ he had written, _you are without a doubt the smartest woman I have ever met and you will be the greatest teacher ever. Don’t give up on your dreams, sometimes those are all we have in times of darkness._

 

So Anne continued on at school and talked to her friends, her father and wrote letters to her brother, who unlike Charles and Henry, joined the navy instead of the army. 

 

xvii. 

 

For the first time since she had met Charles, Anne thought about Mary. 

 

She wondered where she was, if she had any children, if William was still alive or even if they were still married. She wondered if she could help cure her loneliness. 

 

January ended, Nan dropped out of school and went to France as a volunteer. Madge eloped with her new beau and moved to some rich town in Ohio and Anna transferred to Yale so she could be closer to Mother and Father, who were sick with worry for Anna’s brother who had also joined the army. 

 

One by one, they all left, until it was only her, Bessie and Mary left in California. 

 

xviii. 

 

Charles came home for three weeks in February before he was to be deployed to the front in France. Anne _burned_ with happiness as he spun her around in the air at the train station and for the next few weeks they simply stay in each other’s company, loving each other. 

 

“You shouldn’t have married me,” he confessed one night as they lay in bed. 

 

Anne gasped loudly and hit him on the shoulder before she demanded, “Take that back right now Charles Brandon! I love you and I married you and nothing makes me happier, alright! You will come home after the war and we will have children and live happily ever after, okay?” 

 

Charles smiled at her before he pinned her down under him and kissed her collarbone. “Okay,” he murmured, “I love you.” 

 

Anne did not hesitate. 

 

“I love you too— and don’t you forget it.” 

 

xix. 

 

On her birthday that June, Anne received three letters. One, was of course from Charles, who wished her a happy twenty first birthday and told her he loved her and the other was from George, who told her to have a little fun now that she was legal ya? Anne had merely laughed at the paper before she opened the other envelope, curiosity building in her stomach. 

 

_Dear Anne,_

 

_I hope I am not too forward by writing you this letter and I hope it is not too much of a burden for you. I received a letter from Charles and figured that I would write to you as well. I hope everything is well with you and that your studies are progressing nicely. I only have my two sisters Mary and Margaret— Margaret is thirty and lives in Scotland, bless her— to write to back home. All of my other friends are in the army or in the navy like me. It would be nice, if you could of course, to hear a little more about home. It may make time pass by faster here._

 

_Yours sincerely,_

 

_Henry Tudor_

 

_P.S. Happy Birthday!_

 

Anne clutched the letter tightly to her chest and quickly wrote a reply before she even considered writing one back to Charles. 

 

_Dear Henry,_

 

_You were not too forward at all in writing this letter. I am glad you did so. I always wished that we would become better friends and now this is the perfect opportunity. My studies are progressing well, thank you, though I must admit my Poetry course is requiring all of my patience. I’m studying to become a teacher you see and my passion is languages— French to be exact. What did you study at Stanford? I know Charles studied Business and I heard him mention that you were studying it also but I wasn’t sure. Thank you for your birthday wishes._

 

_I hope you are well._

 

_With love,_

 

_Anne._

 

Later on that night, the word _yours_ is burned to the back of her eyelids. 

 

xx. 

 

As a birthday present, Mary Tudor gave her a photo album. Anne had been delighted, if not a tiny bit surprised by the gift. She flipped through it, smiling at the pictures of them on a beach, at the movies, at birthday parties. Her smile faded slightly when she caught sight of a picture of her at the Masquerade Rescue. She was being carried down the ‘castle’ steps bridal style and her head was thrown back as she giggled with her arms fastened around her rescuer’s neck. 

 

Her heartbeat slowed slightly as she studied the photo. 

 

“Do you not like that photo?” Mary questioned, “Sorry, I merely thought that you looked so happy in that picture and you and Charles look so adorable together, I figured it would be a nice memory of the night you two met—“ 

 

“No,” Anne said faintly, “It’s a lovely picture. Thank you, Mary, truly.” 

 

When Anne arrived at home, she studied all the pictures she has of Charles and tries her best to convince herself that that man in the picture was him. 

 

It doesn’t work but then Anne figured it did not really matter. Anne had married Charles and she was in love with him not He— that man. 

 

Just the way it should be. 

 

xxi. 

 

Anne continued her correspondence with Henry and sure enough, they become friends. He told her about his childhood, about his elder brother Arthur who died when Henry was eleven. He wrote to her about Charles and how he had first met him when he was two and Charles had defended him from some bully that had pushed Henry into mud. 

 

Soon enough, Anne began to anticipate his letters almost as much as she did Charles. 

 

By the end of her senior year, Charles is not there to see her graduate, but her father and George are, as her brother had managed to get time off just for the occasion. She climbed the stage, accepts her diploma with a ring on her finger and without a sister in the audience but _god dammit_ she is so happy she could barely breathe. 

 

Much to her surprise, Henry is there. Not to see her graduate of course but for Mary. Still though, Anne hugged him when she saw him and she is surprised by the way her stomach twisted when she let go. 

 

“How is it there?” she asked him quietly, when he came over with her family and friends to her small house. Some of the neighbours are there as well, including Jane, whom Anne had begun to spend every Thursday evening with after their husbands had gone off to war. 

 

Henry smiled at her, though his expression was still somehow very serious. He did not laugh her off like Charles or attempt to comfort her like her father. He was quiet and short but he was honest. 

 

“It’s. . . it’s like nothing any of us could have ever imagined.” 

 

Anne gulped. 

 

Henry left two days after words. 

 

Anne received a letter from Charles. 

 

Life moved on. 

 

(She framed a picture of her, Mary, Henry and George on graduation day and put it by her bedside, along with the picture of her and Charles on their wedding day) 

 

xxii. 

 

Anne managed to land a job at the elementary school a stone throw away from her house. It does not pay a lot but Anne loved it there. She loved the children and her co-workers and the way her classroom always smelled like apples. 

 

When Charles finally managed to come home on leave, a little over a year since she last saw him, he smiled at her and kissed her when she went on and on about this one little boy in her class who _wouldn’t stop talking!_

 

One day, the day before he is supposed to leave, Anne found him in the spare bedroom, sitting in the middle of the room with a guarded expression on his face. When she sat beside him and pressed a kiss to his cheek he told her, “I’m scared Anne.” 

 

She waited. 

 

“I’m scared that I’m going to die out there and that I’m not going to grow old with you and be with you. God, this room should be a children’s room by now. We should already have a little boy or girl to call our own and we don’t because— because the world is so messed up.” 

 

Anne leaned forward and pressed gentle kisses onto his knuckles. “We will,” she whispered comfortingly, “We will.” 

 

xxiii. 

 

The year is 1944. 

 

Anne is busy making an apple pie in the kitchen with Bessie and Mary when there is a knock on the door. “That must be Jane with her chocolate cake,” she told them happily. There was a bake sale going on at the school so that they could raise money for the men fighting and though Jane could not bake with them as she had to go visit her mother out of town, she promised she would leave something for her to take tomorrow before she left. 

 

But it wasn’t Jane at the door. 

 

It was two army officers. 

 

Anne halted at the sight of them; unable to breathe, unable to _think._

 

“Are you Charles Bradon’s wife?” 

 

Anne nodded. 

 

“We are sorry to inform you that your husband died in active duty—“ 

 

Anne screamed. 

 

xxiv. 

 

Time passed by slowly after that. Anne lay in bed depressed for days on end. She cried so hard she vomited all over the floor in her bedroom and she simply lay there, unable to move. Grief had immobilised her. Anne had nothing to live for. She wouldn’t have children— no, even the mere of having children with another man pained her greatly— and she was no longer a wife. She wasn’t even sure if she still had a job; someone had mentioned that they had informed the school as to what happened, but Anne wasn’t sure of what she was supposed to do. 

 

Her future had died with Charles. 

 

Eventually, the day of the funeral came around and she forced herself to shower for the first time in a week and dressed herself in a black dress, her bones feeling so fragile that she felt that they would snap at any given moment. Her engagement ring glinted and Anne wondered if she was still allowed to wear such rings anymore. She was no longer someone’s wife. 

 

Anne did not know how she managed to stand at the funeral but she did. Tears dripped down her face like an endless rainstorm but she was silent as she listened to her mother in law— ex mother in law— sob as she read out the obituary. Anne felt numb. She couldn’t feel her fingers or her toes or her heart. 

 

She gazed at the casket and wondered if his body was really in there or if they had only managed to ship back pieces of him— an arm, a leg, an ear. She wondered if she could get his wedding ring back. 

 

Anne stood there by her husband’s grave when she heard it. The uneven footsteps behind her. Anne turned around to glare at the intruder and gasped when she saw— 

 

“Henry.” 

 

She hadn’t even known that he had returned home. He had a cast around his left hand and there was a brace on his right leg but that did not stop him from pulling her into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry Anne,” he whispered against her hair. 

 

“I’m sorry too,” she told him, unable to contain her sobs. 

 

xxv. 

 

Time passed. 

 

Every day the pain in her chest grew easier to deal with. It didn’t lessen but Anne grew used to it being there. Missing Charles was even worse now because before she had him coming home to look forward to; but now, she has nothing. Charles was gone. 

 

Anne had been given two months off from her work and Anne was almost grateful that it happened now, during summer so she was not stressed about money. Not that she needed to be; Charles had left her all of his inheritance in his will, so Anne did not need to worry about moving or selling the house. 

 

The house. 

 

It had already begun deteriorating. The grass was uncut and wild; the paint outside began to grow chipped and the garden she had worked so hard on died due to lack of care. It was almost like no one lived there, which was strange considering Anne almost never left except to get groceries. 

 

Her closest friends had cooked pies and roasts for her during those first few weeks and they all come over at least once a week to check up on her but— but it wasn’t the same. The house felt empty and cold it no longer felt like home. 

 

One day, her father drove to see her. 

 

They’re sitting in the living room, drinking tea and coffee when she asked him. 

 

“How did you do it?” 

 

Her father looked at her. 

 

“How did you. . .” Anne’s eyes grew glassy and it took everything in her not to cry. “How did you live?” 

 

Her father, for the first time in many years, reached for her hand. 

 

“I don’t know,” he confessed, “I had you and your brother and sister to worry about and to love. All I know is that one day I woke up and realised that it didn’t hurt as much anymore and that she’d want me to be happy.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “But Anne, you have your whole life ahead of you. So much to look forward to. I know it may not seem like it, with all the darkness right now but there will be light again Anne. I know it, I believe it and you should to. Charles would have wanted that for you.” 

 

“Thank you Papa.” 

 

For the first time in three years, Anne removed the necklace Charles gave her (her rings stay firmly on) and puts her Boleyn necklace back on. 

 

xxvi. 

 

Three months after Charles died, Anne found herself gardening. She had bought her favourite flowers, Tulips and had planted them in the flowerbed. There were purple and blue and yellow and pink and they were so pretty they brought a rare smile to her lips. She wiped sweat off her forehead, the California sun beating down unbearably on her back. She heard a car door open and then close but she paid it no mind and drank a sip of lemonade she made. 

 

“Anne.” 

 

She jumped at the sound of Henry’s voice and rose to her feet. “Henry!” she exclaimed, a small smile appearing on her lips. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral, due to the fact that he had to return to the hospital for another surgery on his leg. This time, Anne leaned over and hugged him, her arms wrapping around his waist loosely. 

 

“I’m glad that you’re better,” she murmured, before she pulled away and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. They moved into the house and as Anne poured Henry a glass of lemonade, she studied him. He had a small scar on the side of his chin that hadn’t been there before and he was broader now, like Charles had been when she had last seen him. He was no longer weighed down by any injury. 

 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you, after the funeral—“ 

 

“Henry you have nothing to apologise for,” she told him, her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. His eyes were downcast, almost as if he could not handle looking her in the eye. “How are you?” he questioned finally, his voice heavy. 

 

“Some days are better than others,” she admitted, playing with the skirt of her dress, “But it’s easier to handle now— the grief and the pain. It doesn’t lessen but. . . it’s more bearable now. The school year will start again soon, so I’ll have the kids to take my mind off everything.” There was a moment of silence before she asked, “How are _you_?” 

 

“I’m. . . I’m coping. The doctors did their best on my leg and while I don’t need a brace or crutches anymore, I still have a slight limp so, they won’t take me back.” Anne didn’t need to look him in the eye to know he was devastated. It was evident in his voice. 

 

Anne did not know what to say but she knew she had to comfort him somehow. So she leaned over and held his hand. “I’m glad that you’re here with me.” She smiled at him gently, desperate to show him that she was genuine, “You’re one of my closest friends.” It was true. He had even sent her a letter on Valentine’s day when he was deployed and Anne had kept it along with Charles’s in a box under her bed. 

 

“Yeah?” he asked, almost as if he were unable to believe it. 

 

“Yeah,” she confirmed. 

 

They sat there in silence for another hour, simply soaking in each other’s company. 

 

xxvii. 

 

It became a routine for Henry to come over for dinner at least once a week. He visited more often than that, especially on the weekends and by the time it was mid-September, he was mowing her lawn as she read on her porch. It was a relief to have him back. While there friendship had developed by letters it was nothing compared to having him here with her. 

 

Sometimes they would simply sit together in silence as they each read a book and other times Henry would tell her stories about Charles that made her laugh or cry, or sometimes even both. 

 

Anne had lost her husband and he had lost his best friend. 

 

One day, Anne returned from the bathroom to find Henry studying a picture of Anne and Charles at their wedding. Anne is smiling at the camera but Charles was smiling down at her, with this complete look of adoration on his face. Anne stood beside Henry and stared at the picture as well. 

 

“He really loved you, you know.” Is all Henry said. 

 

“I know,” Anne replied softly. 

 

xxviii. 

 

Anne returned to Hever for Christmas, something she had not done since she and Charles had married. Everyone merely smiled at her and welcomed her back home. No one really knew what she was doing now. 

 

It was only Anne and her father this year, since George was still away at war. It was a quiet, sweet Christmas that ended with them both on the couch, reading. The day before Anne left, she bumped into Thomas Wyatt in the general store. 

 

After they had exchanged pleasantries and said goodbye, Anne was struck by how much her life had changed since she last saw him. That girl who she had been before was now only a distant memory. 

 

The thought made her sad and happy at the same time. 

 

xxix. 

 

Anne was back at her home by the time New Years Eve came around. Bessie had convinced her to go out with her, her new boyfriend Anthony, Henry and Mary to this fun dance hall nearby her house. 

 

Anne had curled her hair and dressed herself in a floor length red down with a beautiful bow around her waist and paired it off with a pair of black heels that she had not worn since she bought them eight months ago. Anne hurried to the door when she heard someone knock and slipped into her coat in the process. She smiled widely at Henry who stared at her, looking slightly gobsmacked. 

 

“You look stunning,” he told her, clearing his throat as his cheeks reddened. Anne found his shyness adorable. “Thank you,” she said sweetly, “You look handsome yourself.” Then she grabbed a hold of her purse, slipped out the door and locked it before approaching the car, where Bessie, Anthony and Mary sat. 

 

It was fun. 

 

The dancing. 

 

Anne sat there at their table for a while, simply watching everyone dance; Henry with Mary and Bessie with Anthony. She felt happy; content even but. . . she missed Charles and not for the first time, wished that he was there with her. 

 

“Come on,” Henry told her, suddenly appearing in front of her as he extended a hand out to her, “Dance with me.” She looked over to see Mary dancing with some blonde haired man who was making her face redder than a tomato. 

 

“Sure,” she agreed finally, allowing him to pull her up to her feet. They danced all night. Henry twirled, spun and lifted her more times than she could count. She laughed harder than she had in months and she felt oddly. .  alright with his hands on her. It was pleasant almost. 

Anne giggled as Henry spun her away from his body, tightening her grip on his hand. 

 

Then all of a sudden the music stopped and a slow song that Anne recognised came on. 

 

“We danced to this song at the wedding,” she recalled, feeling something heavy within her sigh. “I know,” Henry informed her and before she could allow her sadness to overcome her once again, he had pulled her close against his chest. They were both silent for a while before he murmured in her ear. 

 

“In light of the New Year, do you have anything you wish you could change? Or something you wish would happen?” 

 

Anne leaned her head against his shoulder as she thought. 

 

“I don’t know,” she pondered out loud, “I would look for my sister Mary and see how she is doing.” A pause. “I miss her.” She hadn’t admitted that to anyone in years. “You never talked about her,” Henry said, “At least, only very rarely.” 

 

“I know,” Anne agreed, feeling slightly ashamed, “My father had disowned Mary after he found out that she was planning on marrying our paper boy. When I went to go find her at his home about a week after, to tell her that I’d changed his mind, I found out that she had left with him, without even telling me. All she left was a letter, which I never even read. When she called a few days afterwords, I told her that she was no sister of mine and not to call the house ever again.” 

 

Henry only looked at her. 

 

“I’m sure she misses you too.” 

 

Anne smiled wryly. 

 

“I’m not too sure of that, Henry.” 

 

They all count down the New Year ten minutes afterwards and Anne found herself being walked home by Henry about an hour later. “I bought you something,” he told her, once they had walked for a few minutes in silence. Anne looked at him with surprise and relief, “Good,” she said finally, “I got you something as well.” 

 

Now _he_ was the one who was surprised. 

 

“Really?” 

 

Anne laughed at his expression. “You sound so surprised,” she teased, which caused Henry to let out a chuckle. They arrive at her house shortly after and Anne ran inside to find Henry’s present as he went to his car to do the same for her. They sat out on her porch and exchanged presents. Hers was wrapped neatly in Christmas paper, all smooth edges whereas his was wrapped sloppily and unevenly. 

 

“I tried to get Mary to do it but she refused,” he admitted, which caused her to throw her head back and laugh. Something warm began to form in her stomach as she did; something that caused her whole body to swell with emotion and heat, almost as if she had just drank a cup of hot tea. 

 

“Thank you Henry,” she told him and met his eyes so he knew that she wasn’t only thanking him for the gift, “I do not know how I could have done any of this without you.” 

 

“You could have,” he insisted, “you are the strongest woman I have ever known.” 

 

No one had ever called her _strong_ before. Intelligent: yes; Beautiful: yes; But never _strong._

 

Anne cleared her throat and looked away before she could begin to cry. She unwrapped the gift slowly and stared at it in awe when the wrapping paper finally crumbled in her hands. It was a beautiful painting of St. Malo. Anne had mentioned that she and the rest of her family had stayed there during the Summers she lived in France but that had only been once, in a letter she had written more than a _year_ ago. 

 

“You don’t like it, do you?” Henry said anxiously, “I knew you wouldn’t, God I’m so sorry Anne—“ 

 

“Henry,” Anne interrupted firmly, “I love it. I adore it, thank you so much.” Then before she lost her nerve, she leaned over and quickly kissed him on the cheek, before pulling away. “Now you open yours.” It took him a moment to respond, almost as if her actions had rendered him useless. Truth be told, Anne’s lips burned from where they had met his skin. She was just as surprised that she had done such a thing. 

 

She waited impatiently for him to unwrap the present and watched his expression cautiously as he stared down at the framed picture. 

 

It was the one Mary had included in the photo album she had given her years ago. Not the exact copy of course, Anne had managed to pester Mary into giving her a the other copy that she had in some box somewhere. The frame had the date of the Masquerade letter engraved at the bottom in gold. 

 

“I know it’s simple,” Anne half explained, half excused herself, “But I thought it was a beautiful picture. A kind reminder of our younger years.” Henry still had not said anything. 

 

“You’re making me nervous.” 

 

She was only half-joking. 

 

“I. . . thank you, Anne.” His voice was so genuine it made her throat close with emotion, “Thank you.” 

 

Anne smiled and shortly thereafter wished him goodnight. 

 

“Happy New Year Henry.” 

 

“Happy New Year Anne.” 

 

Then they went their separate ways for the night. 

 

xxx. 

 

On Valentine’s day in 1945, Anne began to pack Charles things. There was a local charity going around to houses in search of donations and so Anne began to sort all of his clothes in boxes and bags. 

 

She did so with one of her records playing on her vinyl and a cup of brandy in her hand to help numb the pain (don’t mistake her for an alcoholic, it was only one cup that she nursed for hours). She sorted all of his khaki pants and polo shirts into one box and kept a few that had sentimental value for her. 

 

The navy blue shirt he wore on their first date; the pair of shoes he wore when he first took her dancing; the tuxedo she found in the back of his closet that he wore when he proposed etc. By the time Anne had finished sorting out what she wanted to give away and what she wanted to keep, the sun had begun to set. Luckily, she was not expecting anyone today so Anne proceeded to take her time. She looked under their bed to see if he had left any box of some sorts under there and was instead confronted by the decorative chest she kept all of his letters in from the war. 

 

She kept most of the ones from George and Henry in another box in the garage, with the most recent ones from George put in a drawer in her nightstand. Anne smiled at the sight of the chest and pulled it out before she leaned against the bed railing and opened it. 

 

It was the first one he wrote from basic training. 

 

_Dear Anne,_

 

_I love you. All is well here, don’t worry. Sure the barracks have a strange odour and the food leaves a lot to be desired (believe it or not, I’m actually missing your burned lasagna) but we are all safe here. By Commanding officer is an alright man, stoic and serious but alright. I miss and love you but don’t you miss me too much._

 

_Love,_

_Charles._

 

She sat there well into the night and read all the letters he had sent her, all one hundred and three of them scattered around her on the floor. She looked back into the box and smiled when she caught sight of the pink envelope Henry had sent her on Valentine’s day. He had managed to fit a small, withered tulip into the envelope along with the letter and in that he had merely commented, _“Happy Valentine’s day— you mentioned Tulip’s were your favourite”._ When Anne put that letter back in the box, she caught sight of another unopened envelope. 

 

She frowned and picked it up before she opened the seal and began to read. 

 

It was from Charles. 

 

_Dear Anne,_

 

_My love, there are two scenarios in which you are reading this letter. The first is that we have grown old and you wish to demonstrate to our children how dedicated their father was in writing you over one hundred letters and the other is that I am dead. If it is the first scenario, tell them I wish I had written you a thousand. If it is the latter, just know that I love you and wish for you to be happy. You will love again— and have no doubt that I want you to, so please don’t feel guilty— as you should. Just make sure he isn’t as good looking or handsome as me yeah?_

 

_I’m just joking my love. Marry a man who will treat you right, is all I ask. I want you to live your life and have a bunch of babies and return to France like I know you do, even if you never mentioned it. Take care of yourself and know that wherever I am, I’m happy in the knowledge that you are safe._

 

_I love you._

 

_With love,_

_Charles._

 

Anne managed to put the letter back in the envelope with shaking hands and with tears streaming down her face. 

 

“I love you,” she whispered, as she looked up at the ceiling, “God, Charles, I love you so much.” 

 

xxxi. 

 

Anne noticed the way Henry looked at her sometimes. 

 

The first time she noticed— really, truly noticed— was in March. He was fixing his car with some tools in her garage and she was sitting beside him in a yellow polka dotted dress. “Please pass me the wrench,” he asked, staring at the engine with an adorable frown on his face that made Anne smile. Anne nodded and leaned over to her right so she could retrieve the wrench. 

 

“Is this—“ 

 

Her dress had ridden so far up her thighs he could almost see her garters. Anne flushed slightly as she noticed that his eyes had darkened and felt something begin to thaw in the lower regions of her stomach. “The wrench,” she said firmly, snapping them both out of their trance. 

 

But there were other moments as well. Like when they all went out to the beach and Anne stepped out in her bathing suit or when— 

 

Anne wasn’t quite sure whether or not she was ready to be _with_ another man, especially if he was Henry. He was without a doubt her closest friend and Charles—

 

“Henry,” Anne said one evening in May, “Do you think you’ll ever get married?” 

 

Henry turned his head so quickly to look at her she thought he got whiplash. “I think that if I ever meet the right person who I fall in love with then, yes.” Anne nodded at his words before she proceeded further, “Have you ever gotten close before?” 

 

It took him a few moments to respond and when he did his voice sounded oddly pained. 

 

“Yes,” he admitted quietly, “Or at least, I knew that I could it just. . . it just didn’t turn out that way.” Though Anne is tempted to question him further, something inside her tells her that it would not be wise. 

 

He cleared his throat after a few moments. 

 

“Why do you ask?” 

 

It took her several moments to answer. 

 

“You know, I always wanted to get married in Saint Malo. I’m not sure I ever mentioned this to you when I told you about it—“ she cast a glance at the painting he gave her which hung over her fireplace— “but there was this lovely cathedral right by the beach. I always wanted to wear my mother’s wedding dress. When I married Charles that didn’t happen and—and that’s not to say that I didn’t love my wedding but. . . I don’t know I think I just realised that one day I have the opportunity to do it the way I originally imagined.” There was a pause before she asked, “Is that horrible?” 

 

“No,” he replied immediately. 

 

“I won’t marry until the war is over though.” 

 

“The war could never be over,” Henry pointed out, his blue eyes piercing into the side of her head. Anne smiled slightly before she shrugged, “Then I guess I’ll never marry again.” 

 

xxxii. 

 

Though Anne received the news that Charles died in June, the day he actually died was May 19th 1944. On the one year anniversary, she went to work, ate out with Jane during her lunch and visited his grave in the afternoon, with a bouquet of roses in her hand. 

 

She placed the roses against his headstone and hovered there for a moment before she glanced down at her left hand, where her wedding and engagement ring were still firmly on. Before Anne could stop herself she slipped both of them off tenderly before knelt in the grass and began to dig a small hole next to his gravestone. She kissed her wedding ring before she placed it in the small hole. 

 

But she didn’t put the engagement ring in there. No, she slipped that on onto her right hand’s ring finger and proceeded to cover the hole with soil. Before she left, she pressed a kiss on his headstone and whispered, “I love you.” 

 

xxxiii. 

 

Exactly one year and three days after Charles, Anne found herself flipping through the photo album that Mary gave her all those years ago. Anne had added some pictures in the space that Mary had left for her to do so and by the time she reached the back of the album, she was smiling. 

 

There was one picture of them at the beach, the three girls smiling at the camera as they held ice cream cones in their hands. There was another of them at Bessie’s wedding (she had gotten married in April) and so many more. But there was only one that made her heart stop and her eyes widen. 

 

It was one of her and Henry at that New Years Eve party a few months ago. They had somehow managed to capture a moment where they were dancing together and looking in each other’s eyes with smiles on their lips. They looked so intimate that Anne wanted to cry. Hell, she did not even remember putting that picture in there and sure enough, when Anne slipped it out and turned it over, Henry’s familiar was scrawl was on the back. 

 

_I figured this would be a good addition— H._

 

Anne smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. 

 

xxxiv. 

 

On the day of her twenty fourth birthday, Henry came to her house at twelve in the afternoon, offered her a blindfold and made her promise to wear it and stay inside until he came back. Anne had raised an eyebrow at him but agreed and so she sat there on the couch in her living room, waiting for him to return. 

 

In what could have been an hour or ten minutes Anne’s front door opened. 

 

“Can I take this off now? I’m sweating terribly—“ 

 

“Yes, Anne,” Henry said and it almost sounded as though there were _two_ sets of footfalls. She felt his hands remove her blindfold and she blinked rapidly at the bright light before she frowned at the sight in front of her. She was staring at a peach coloured skirt. “Henry, is your present telling me that you like to dress as a woman? Because if it is—“ 

 

Her voice died when she looked up and found herself staring into her sister’s eyes. She looked older than she did five years ago, as to be expected but her eyes were the same as was her smile, though it looked strangely nervous, almost as if she were afraid that Anne would scream at her and kick her out. 

 

“Mary?” she whispered, unable to believe it. 

 

“Hello Anne,” her sister replied gingerly. 

 

Before Mary could say anything else, Anne hugged her tightly, tears streaming down her face as they sunk to the floor together, clutching onto each other. “I’m sorry,” they kept on repeating, “I’m so so sorry.” 

 

Later, when they managed to control themselves, Anne and Mary went out for lunch in Henry’s car. He had stayed behind at her house in order to allow them time to catch up. 

 

“Where did you go?” Anne asked after they had finished ordering. 

 

“Canada, at first,” Mary supplied and at Anne’s surprised expression she explained, “Will had an Uncle there who was starting some sort of farming business. We stayed there for about one—two years or so, had Anne—“ Mary handed her a small picture she had in her wallet—“ And then we moved to San Francisco where William enlisted. I got a small job as a secretary at the postal office in order to help support me and the children— I had my son David in 43.” 

 

“I can’t wait to meet them,” Anne said finally. 

 

There was silence for a few moments before Mary grabbed a hold of her hand, her voice soft. “I heard about what happened to Charles from George. Anne, I’m so sorry.” Anne smiled sadly before she shook her head, “I’m just disappointed that you’ll never get to meet him. You would have loved him.” 

 

Mary chuckled briefly and shortly thereafter Anne asked her something that had been pressing on her mind the whole afternoon. “Mary, why did you come meet me now? I mean. . . why now? What happened? I was horrible to you—“ 

 

“You were hurt, as you had every right to be.” Mary took a deep breath before continuing, “I  planned on reaching out to you sooner than I did but then I heard about Charles dying and I didn’t want to risk upsetting you further. It was actually your friend Henry who tracked me down and organised everything— he bought the plane ticket and paid for my hotel room and everything. He seemed very determined to bring me over here.” 

 

Anne let out a small laugh of appreciation but didn’t say anything, instead choosing to drink some of her water. 

 

“He loves you,” Mary told her bluntly, causing her to choke. “And I don’t mean to be too forward or to upset you by saying this but, in the whole twenty minutes that I was with the two of you in the same room, it was obvious that you love him too.” Mary raised a hand at Anne’s expression in order to silence her protests. “I’m not saying you’re in love with him but I think it’s obvious to anyone paying attention that at the very least you care about him deeply. He wouldn’t stop talking about you on the ride home from the airport— I learned more about you in the thirty minutes driving to the hotel than I have having lunch with you.” 

 

Anne did not know what to say. 

 

Or maybe she did and she just didn’t want to admit it just yet. 

 

xxxv. 

 

After Mary took a taxi to her hotel Anne sat Henry down on the couch in her living room, butterflies flying in her stomach. 

 

She waited until they both took sips of their coffee before she blurted out, “I love you.” 

 

Henry nearly spat out his coffee all over the carpet, his eyes wide as he coughed, the liquid burning his throat. Anne felt strangely calm saying the words, almost as if she were talking to no one and not him. But there was also this odd satisfaction in finally admitting that caused her cheeks to flush and her heart to swell with delight. 

 

“I’m in love with you,” she clarified, after seeing his wide eyed expression, “I think I’ve been in love with you ever since you called me Perseverance at the wedding. Now, that’s not to say I didn’t love Charles— or that I don’t still love him. I do. But—“ she grabbed a hold of his hands and placed it over her heart, “But being with you makes my heart stop. You’re my best friend and this thing that is beating so rapidly belongs to you. I think in some strange way it has since you swept me off my feet at the Masquerade.” 

 

“I’ve been in love with you since the first moment I saw you,” he confessed quietly. 

 

Anne leaned over and kissed him smack on the lips. It wasn’t instant sparks like it had been with Charles; it wasn’t like a fire had been set alight in her blood. No, this feeling was slower; like molten rock moving beneath the earth, moving slowly but steadily. This time her body wasn’t flying in the clouds it was anchored firmly down with him at home. This was steady. Sure. Unwavering. 

 

They made love on her living room floor, with the moon painting their bodies with silver. This time— her first time with another man was slow and gentle. This time the ‘I love you’ didn’t come after the act; it came before, during _and_ after. 

 

xxxvi. 

 

The war ends in September, six years and one day after it began. 

 

Henry proposes to her on that at her home. One minute she is reading a book and the next Henry is down on one knee with the promise of the future and happiness in his bright blue eyes. 

 

(The right shade of blue) 

 

They marry in Saint Malo with only his sisters and her immediate family in attendance, at the beach of her childhood. 

 

She wears her mother’s wedding dress and her father sheds a tear when he sees her. 

 

(Henry cries all throughout their wedding vows and Anne sheds a tear after she says “I do” for what she hoped and knew was the last time) 

 

xxxvii. 

 

Anne is lying in a hospital bed with Henry by her side. 

 

“What should we name them?” he asked her, looking at the babies in question from where they slept in the cot the nurses put them in. Anne smiled lazily at him and answered, “I found the perfect name for our son.” 

 

Henry pressed a kiss onto her shoulder. “What is it?” 

 

“Charlie,” she replied without hesitation, “Charles.” 

 

Henry smiled against her neck. 

 

“I love it.” 

 

“Charles _Henry_ Tudor, named after the two great loves of my life,” she told him, smiling widely. He pressed a kiss onto her nose and his face was so full of _love_ that a tear trickled down her cheek. He turned to look at their children and said, “How about Elizabeth? After our mothers?” 

 

“Yes,” Anne agreed instantly, “Elizabeth Mary Tudor, for our mothers and our sisters.” 

 

And in that moment, Anne was the happiest she had ever been. 

 

xxxviii. 

 

There are still days when she misses Charles so badly she can’t breathe and there are nights when she dreams of him. She talks to friends and is assured that she is not a horrible wife for missing Charles and loving Henry at the same time and that no, he would not hate her for moving on with her life. 

 

Her and Henry move into a tall white house right on the beach a month before they get married and they spend the whole day running around the house painting, which climaxes when Henry dabs her nose with yellow paint. 

 

There is no war or loneliness or miscommunication. 

 

There is only love. 

 

— 

 

_End._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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